


Still Looking For A Title

by boonjo01



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonjo01/pseuds/boonjo01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meeting in a college cafe, Dean and Castiel start themselves on a rollercoaster both of them never seen coming.</p><p>A WIP through 2014, with new content posted every 4-7 days for the whole year.</p><p>Updates:<br/>1/27/14 -- Posted edited prologue<br/>2/4/14 -- Posted edited Chapter 2, Posted Chapter 4<br/>2/21/14 -- Posted edited Chapter 3, Proofed Chapter 4 (to be posted at a later date), and my beta has Chapter 5</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: As I am massively behind on the show (that's what I get for starting to watch it from the beginning when it's in the middle of season 8), most of the following relationships, family trees, and personalities may differentiate a ton from what they currently are, and characters may not even show up until I reach that point in the show. Most of what happens below is my personal headcanon after mid-season 4. As characters and character traits and development get introduced in the show, you will most likely see choice things appear in the fic, so you will be able to guess where I am in watching the show based on the introduction of new characters and arcs. Please bear with me as these changes appear. 
> 
> Enjoy the fic! Domestic!Destiel is always something I've wanted to write a massive fic of, and here I am to do it.

On that bleary January day, Dean Winchester used one of the meals in his meal plan to purchase a large bowl of chicken noodle soup for the sick kid in the corner if the cafe, under a light that worked less often than it didn't, casting the booth in the kind of shadow that goes unnoticed to those simply casting their eyes over the crowd, or someone looking specifically for a person that wasn't him.

It was piping hot, chicken noodle soup, cooked thirty-seven minutes beforehand by the cafe staff as part of the new winter menu that went into effect three days prior with the start of the new semester.

Dean Winchester and the sick kid sitting in the corner, whose name was Castiel Milton, had no idea that both of their lives were about to change in so many ways as Dean looked over at the ditzy waitress, carrying a shallow styrofoam cup of soup masquerading as a bowl to Castiel with a smile so wide it looked almost manic. In fact, no one could have ever guessed that the events about to unfold between the two of them would have started with that cafe soup and ditzy waitress, and anyone aware would have said that it didn't matter. Little would those people have known, it made all the difference in the world.


	2. Cafe

Dean Winchester was a hardworking college student. Starting his sixth semester as a major in automotive technology, his second semester being the coveted first chair trumpeter in the college's elite symphony, his third semester as an incredible baritone who carried the men in the college's chamber choir, and taking regular classes which usually netted a “B/B-” average on top of that, he had to be. Especially since the ownership of his baby, the black 1967 Chevrolet Impala his father gave him as a graduation present, was conditional and dependent upon his success in all that he was involved in while at school.

Along with the hard work in class and rehearsals, he had to do a lot of work outside of class as well. After all, the Impala wasn't going to maintain itself. His instruments weren't going to learn the music themselves. His homework definitely wasn't sentient enough to complete assignments on their own. Things just had to get done, be it busy work that was a part of his activities, or the participation in the activities themselves. His car (and tuition, for that matter), depended on the end results of the work he did for his classes and his extracurriculars.

Though, if he wasn't succeeding for himself, he was succeeding for the approval of his strict father. Everything Dean did to win his approval was always frowned upon with a 'you could have done better' or 'not good enough', and after a subtle head shake in his direction at his own high-school graduation, he swore he was going to do his best to make sure his father had something to be proud of him for.

That promise to himself is what got him up in the mornings, and kept him going when he decided to sack off a little bit in his third semester, but the slack went too far and he almost hit the point of no return. His only option was to be the hardest working person on campus. If he wasn't, he had to step up his game to work harder than the hardest working person on campus, making sure he stayed on top.

That said, it was a personal challenge to him and the instant start of an internal competition to see this nerdy hipster shoved into a tiny, dark booth in the corner of the cafe, sick as a dog and nursing what appeared to be a grande sized chamomile tea, as well as three books, a highlighter, a notebook, and two pencils.

Dean now had competition, and even though Mr. “Perfect Candidate for a DayQuil Advert” didn't know it yet, it was definitely game on. Dean cursed himself. He obviously wasn't studying when he could have been, and here's this kid, in the cafe, _sick,_ and he's taking notes for what seems to him to be three different classes at the same time. Dean didn't like it at all.

Although he was now pitting himself against the bespectacled, scarf wrapped, studying boy wonder, he couldn't help but want to commend the poor guy for his dedication to his academics. Obviously sick, with baggy blue eyes hidden behind square framed glasses, ruby red cheeks, and coughing more often than Dean did when he was bored, he was still here in the cafe: wrapped in more layers than an onion, three books open, attention equally divided between all of them, and somehow extremely focused on what lay in front of him. This was all being miraculously done despite the headache he seemed to be dealing with every time the light above his booth decided to work.

That's when something in Dean decided to reach out to the guy. After ordering his own food, he turned to the cashier, who already seemed to be intent on helping someone else with their order, and told her, “Hey, can I also use a meal and get some soup for that guy over there in the corner? You know, the corner where it's really dark? If you have tomato and rice, that'd be great, and if not, chicken noodle or whatever you guys have made would be great.”

The cashier took Dean's student card a second time, scanned it, and waited as he shoved it back into his leather wallet, which disappeared into the back pocket of his jeans.

After Dean ordered, he took the vibrating coaster that was used to notify patrons when their food was ready, and sat down at the booth directly next to “Sicky” (the name he had given the kid in his head while he was ordering). He pulled four books out of his backpack, opening one of them and setting the other three of to the side, because being subtle was important when the competition was a stiff as a board.

Five minutes later, Dean's coaster vibrated and he went up to the counter to receive his food. He also decided to ask if one of the people behind the counter could deliver the soup for him, and a frizy haired, blonde girl who looked like a freshman volunteered to do it. She wasn't exactly the best choice, considering she seemed incredibly clumsy and not too sure of how to interact with people, but Dean took it as his best option, considering it meant he didn't have to be weird about delivering it himself.

He cursed himself when the ditzy delivery girl delivered Sicky's soup, pointing right at Dean when the most puzzled and worried expression Sicky could muster appeared on his face. Sicky sent a pained grin in Dean's direction while avoiding lingering eye contact, mouthed a thank you, and started sipping the soup while the cup of tea lay sideways on the table, a miniscule puddle of liquid on the table right next to the edge of the cup, obviously empty and forgotten as he went immediately back to work.

Dean sat at the table for another two hours, halfheartedly studying his four books while stealing glances at Sicky every couple minutes to make sure he never had more than three on his table. It was an incredible struggle, as this behavior continued for about 45 minutes before Dean got bored. That was just as well, because he got absorbed in the book he was studying from, forgetting about Sicky completely.

Some time later, a thud on the table shook it so hard that Dean nearly tipped over his thrice-refilled soda in his spasmodic panic. When he finally regained his wits enough to clearly see what had happened, the first thing he saw was Sicky planted right in the seat across from him, his messenger bag on the only open spot left on the table.

Sicky started to speak, a deeper than excepted rumble that sounded like thunder, “I wanted to thank you in person for the soup. Not many people are that kind and thoughtful around here, and I certainly wouldn't have pegged you as the kind of person to do something that thoughtful.” Sicky said, struggling around a nose full of snot to talk clearly, “My name is Castiel, by the way.”

“Look, kid, I–“

“Castiel. I hate when people call me kid.” He chuckled as he told Dean he was 21 years old, and therefore a full adult.

“Okay, _Cas,_ it just looked like you needed something better than bland grass water, if that's what the cup of whatever you had was. And I call everyone younger than me “kid”.” Because Castiel was the same age as Dean, he quickly added, “Even if it's only by a day. It's a thing.”

Castiel still seemed to be stuck on the nickname Dean had given him. Eyebrows scrunched together, blue eyes looking slightly upward in thought, though the rest of his face still seemed pointed at Dean.

Finally, after a moment's contemplation and accepting the nickname, he spoke: “Well, again, thank you. That was indeed tea I was drinking, it was an herbal blend my sister sent to me that was supposed to help clear out my throat. It's working a little bit...I mean, I can talk clearly again, obviously.” Castiel smiled to himself before bringing up Dean's last point. “How do you know I'm younger than you? I could be older.”

“You look like a freakin' freshman.” Dean said, and it seemed to be true. While he and Castiel shared the same body type, there was a certain innocence in Castiel's face, like he hadn't experienced much, and had a lot yet to learn.

“And you look like you paused puberty after graduating high school. I was born on the 10th of January, 1991. A Thursday.” said Castiel.

Dean replied, “Well, my apologies. January 24th, same year. I guess we're only two weeks apart.”

“Curious. You're still two weeks younger than me, Dean, or should I start calling you _kid?_ ” Castiel's reply made Dean chuckle. He already liked this guy. Respectable, but sarcastic. It worked for him.

“Your name should be 'Sasstiel' at the rate you're going. Seeing as your birthday is next week, you think you're going to be be sick for it?” said Dean, smiling through a mozzarella stick, which clearly disgusted Castiel.

“I think I'm going to be sick now, but I appreciate the sentiment, if that's what you meant with that Sasstiel remark. ” He picked up the messenger bag, slung it over his shoulder and made a final parting remark, “Thanks again for the soup. I hope to enjoy your company again sometime.”

As he turned to walk away, he spoke as loud and clear as he could through the cold, “It's going to take more than four books and cautious glances my way to one-up me.”

Dean couldn't help but smirk to himself as he closed his last book and watched as the living coat rack walked out the door. “I guess he knew the whole time. Damn.” Castiel was definitely smarter than he looked, which to Dean, seemed next to impossible for him to do.


	3. Rehearsal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that the disclaimer I posted at the beginning of the fic can be ignored from here on out for redundancy's sake, right?
> 
> I'm trying to write more, forcing myself to get SOMETHING down on the age, and I gotta say, I like where it's going. And this chapter opened u so many possibilities and plot maps for the future. YAY PLANNING
> 
> Huge shoutout to i-am-mishafuckingcollins for being my Beta!!! BIG HUGS!
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

Dean strayed in the cafe a little longer, reading the same three paragraphs over and over while lingering on the words Cas spoke, and what his face looked like, and that smile that lit up his eyes, too, and what he was wearing (goddamn, so many fucking layers), and his glasses framing such perfect blue eyes, and how sick he was.

As 8 o'clock drew near, Dean decided to pack up and head to the music building, a large and well-kept building about a city block or so away and set in between all three of the fine arts building, the Whittaker dormitory, and the library. He decided that skipping rehearsal again wasn't going to be the best idea, considering that if he did so, he would give up first chair and there would be a mad scramble to audition for it. Granted, he could definitely audition for it again and defend his placement, but seeing as the chance of having it given back to him after three tardies was slim to nothing, he decided he didn't want that.

So, at 8pm, he was in his chair, horn on his lips and warming up, as the conductor entered the room. Missouri Mosely's obvious demand for respect made the room quiet down almost instantly as she set her white folder covered in musical notes and symbols on the director's stand and took her baton out of the colourful pouch an alumni had made for her three years ago. She was a warm and inviting woman, saying hello to anyone that she passed and smiling at everyone else, making her well-liked and easily approachable to anyone who knew that her name was Dr. Moseley. She could also lay down the law when necessary, seeming to be able to predict the actions of her students before they even knew they were going to do it, making her frigid and robotic to anyone on campus who didn't know who she was.

When she finally got settled and the room had gone silent, Dean knew that the discreet motions she was making in his direction had told him that she knew he was at rehearsal tonight before she even had a chance to look at the ensemble proper.

She demonstrated this knowledge when she addressed him before looking up at everyone, her stern voice cutting through the soundproofing in the room so that she was heard. “Winchester, one more absence and I'mma hit you with a spoon. Understood?” she said, finally raising her eyes to look directly at Dean, who had just blossomed into a violent shade of crimson.

“Yes, ma'am,...uh,...won't happen again, ma'am.” Dean stammered, unable to look her directly in the eye as he said it.

“Good. And I mean it Winchester. You're seat is coveted by a lot of people, and more than those in your section. Now, if y'all wanna put 'Sheltering Sky' in the front of your stack, we're going to start with that piece tonight. I apologize to you all for not having the rehearsal order on the board as usual. I got held up in my office by an ill student. And if anyone in here has their body decide that they l of a sudden need to be sick, please inform me well before rehearsal, and not as I'm leaving my office. Downbeat in thirty seconds.”

Dean recoiled and nervously looked around the room while checking if his pride was still intact, when his eyes came into contact with a pair of familiar blue ones set behind a pair of familiar glasses. Upon making eye contact, Castiel halfheartedly raised a semi-closed hand as a gesture of greeting, after which Dean blushed and averted eye contact yet again. He cursed to himself as it wasn't his night for looking people dead in the eye when they acknowledged him.

Missouri raised her baton, looking out over the ensemble and noticing Castiel's nose was redder than everyone else. “Mr. Novak, are you sick?” asked Missouri, her tone and smile sweet as sugar as she brought her baton down and folded her hands in front of her.

“Yes, ma'am.” Castiel answered honestly, hurriedly adding, “I'm getting better, though, and I was wondering if I could participate anyways. I really need to play with the ensemble to iron out these last couple spots I've been practicing.” said Castiel.

Missouri put on an expression of something between exasperation and annoyance and replied, “Mr. Novak, no. The last thing this ensemble needs right now is for you to turn that clarinet into a germ cannon that hits everyone in front of you. We will be fine without you for a rehearsal or two while you get better. Now go rest, doctor's orders.”

“Yes, Dr. Moseley.” Castiel said.

“And you better be drinking enough orange juice to make Emergen-C look like a placebo.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Castiel turned his attention to dismantling his horn. When he packed up his clarinet and walked out of the room, he was bundled up in what seemed to be the same number of layers as before. While he did this, Dean couldn't help but to keep his eyes glued to him. What about this guy was so damn interesting as to make Dean stare at him like one of the girls had gone topless on his floor?

After Castiel left, the rest of rehearsal went as planned, and with an absentminded Dean missing the occasional entrance or key change. After rehearsal, he put away his trumpet as quickly as he could, but not before he heard Missouri say, “Mr. Winchester, may I speak with you in my office?”

 _Shit,_ he thought. “Yes, ma'am.”

Knowing that Dr. Moseley took her time getting places (“It's not about when you're there, but whether the journey was worth it. Except for rehearsals and performances. I'll flunk all of you if you think you can show up late.”), he headed to her office and sat down in one of the chairs, thinking about what he could have possibly done to earn a visit to Missouri's office. He was a good player, did his homework and pulled his weight and the weight of the rest of his section; it was the kind of responsibility that came with being first chair. So what if he missed one rehearsal to fool around with a cheerleader and missed a couple things tonight? It wouldn't happen again if it meant he could keep his chair.

Missouri walked around the corner, smiling to herself. Upon seeing each other, Dean stood up, and Missouri offered, “Tessa tells some of the greatest stories. That lady's been places.” She unlocked her office, and let herself in while Dean followed, leaving his possessions on the chair outside. She sat herself down at the desk while Dean stood opposite, and after she shuffled through a couple papers, she looked up at him, still standing and said, “You can have a seat, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean was flustered for a second, but finally sat down in an upholstered version of the same chairs they used in the band room. Once he was seated, Missouri said, “Do I need to separate you two?”

Dean was surprised. “Separate who?”

“You and the Novak boy. He left and al of sudden it's like you're picking up the horn for the first time in months. You can't play with the skill your chair demands if your mind isn't where it needs to be.”

“Oh, uh, ma'am, I just met him at the cafe tonight, I got him soup at the cafe and--”

“So he's been sick like that all day? And he didn't tell me? I'll have to have a talk with that boy. I appreciate the determination, but pushing himself like that is going to make everyone around him sick and make him only get worse.” As she finished, Dean's glance went to the giant wooden spoon hanging on her wall, flanked by a giant wooden fork and a giant wooden butterknife.

“You still haven't answered my question from earlier, Winchester. Are you sure you're alright? You're not getting sick, too, are you?”

“No, ma'am. I just met him tonight and there was something so weird about him, like the fact that--”

“He's a harder worker than you? I knew that. You know, Dean, the fact that someone out there works harder and does better than you do isn't such a...how do they say...extraordinary thing. He was in the cafe studying earlier, wasn't he?”

“Um, yeah, ma'am, how'd you know?”

“He's in there every night. Poor kid doesn't even know other people have his arrival and departure times down to a science. I've been in there a couple times, and he's always there, pouring himself into those books of his...” she trailed off, staring into space. Or more specifically, the lion figurine on her desk.

Dean ducked his head a little, his eye searching for hers to get her attention. “Ma'am? I promise it won't be an issue again. He just caught my eye, is all.”

“Alright, Dean. You're free to go. And next time I call you into my office, I want the truth, not what you think I wanna hear. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Dr. Moseley.”

Dean knew that she had a way of knowing things about her students before they even did, and as Dean left her office, he couldn't help but wonder what that thing was for him.

He gathered up his equipment and locked himself in a practice room, playing the same three or four pieces from memory on the piano repeatedly so that he could think. It didn't take him long to figure out what Missouri already knew.

What he had figured out, and the answer that he was satisfied with, was that he and Castiel were about to become friends. The part of the answer that he hadn't figured out was that they weren't just going to be the kind of friends that hung out with the same people together, but the kind that tell each other everything and hold nothing back when they were alone, and that they were potentially going to be so much more than that.

Three hallways away and a floor above Dean's practice room, Missouri stopped grading her papers and looked at the lion statuette perched majestically on her desk. She chuckled at it as she said, “I better get an invitation to those boys' wedding. Or I'm gonna slap them upside the head.”


	4. Birthday

Castiel only told one person on campus about his birthday. That person was Dean, the person he took to studying with every night in the cafe, and the only person he felt comfortable around other than his already existing circle of friends. So, after the courtesy gifts from his family and the note on his door from the ResLife staff, it wasn't hard to figure out who the other gift was from, even though there was no name on it.

Castiel keyed into his room, set the gifts on his bed, took off his surgical mask, and logged into Facebook. Sure enough, not only was there a friend request (which Castiel obviously accepted), but Dean was also online, apparently using the free hour he scheduled himself every day for his enjoyment.

_;;Thanks for the gift, Dean;;_

Dean didn't answer right away, but the notification that he saw it popped onto the screen, and Castiel was content with that. He grabbed his father's gift to him first, which turned out to be a $50 Amazon gift card, a $300 gift certificate to the college bookstore, and five $100 bills.

“ _Figured you could use the bookstore money for textbooks if you still needed them, and the Amazon card to get yourself something. Happy 21_ _st_ _Birthday, Castiel. Don't be stupid if and when you're drinking (don't tell your mother, but the $500 in cash my or may not be used to take you and your friends out).”_

Castiel turned the card from his father around in his hands, and was met with “ _Happy Birthday”_ written in shiny, purple, embossed foil script, with “ _Love, Mom and Dad”_ written at the bottom of the card. He couldn't help smiling to himself. When his father gave half of a shit (usually at the urging of his mother), he usually did some really good things. He also appreciated the handwritten card, seeing as the last three birthdays of his usually ended with an unexplained, random gift from his parents, who meant well but didn't really know Castiel at all, so the gifts usually ended up being clothes, or the VCR he got his freshman year (even though the only VHS Castiel owned was Toy Story, and that was in storage).

The cash went into his wallet, and the two gift envelopes went into his top desk drawer. He figured he could find a use for the $500 later.

As he closed the drawer and grabbed Dean's gift to open, the computer on his desk blipped.

“Speak of the devil.” Castiel smiled to himself as he clicked on the “1” icon next to Dean's name.

_::You're welcome. Did you like it? It took me twenty minutes to beg ResLife for your dorm and room number, but I got it delivered.::_

_;;I haven't opened it yet. My parents actually sent me something good this year instead of clothes. Yours is in my lap as we speak, I promise, and I'm opening it next. It's not like I have gifts waiting from a conga line of other suitors, you know.;;_

He looked back down at the box he was holding and noticed how many creases were on the corners and how many more were on the edges. He was wondering exactly how much effort Dean put into wrapping it as perfectly as possible (because it looked like it was wrapped by a professional, otherwise) when the computer blipped again.

_::'Other suitors'? Uh, Cas..._

_Can we talk? Face to face?::_

Castiel froze. He didn't realize what he had done until he read Dean's response. His stomach sank and he felt like throwing up as he typed.

_;;Dean, I'm so sorry,_

_I didn't mean_

But when Castiel was typing the second line, a message from Dean interrupted him.

_::I mean it, Cas. We need to talk in person._

_Now if possible._

_I'm not going to do anything to hurt you._

_Or humiliate you._

_I promise._

_Just meet me in the Union.::_

The only thing that got Castiel to leave the room at all was the fact that Dean said he wouldn't hurt him. Dean _did_ promise, and he didn't seem like the kind of person to break them.


End file.
